No footsteps pounding down the stairs.
No voice calling my name.
No note on the refrigerator telling me what needed to be done.
Only the sound of rain.
My knitting basket.
A photograph of Henry.
My tea.
My key.
My wallet.
I picked up the wallet and ran my thumb across the clasp.
Then I closed it.
Click.
The same sound it had made in that grocery store months earlier.
Back then, that little click had felt like rebellion.
Now it sounded different.
It sounded like a lock turning.
A boundary settling into place.
A life finally belonging to the woman who had lived it.
I smiled toward the dark window.
For decades, I thought being a good mother meant always keeping my door open.
